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The Summer of the Great-Grandmother
Madeleine L’Engle
for the great-grandmother
Contents
I SUMMER’S BEGINNING
II THE MOTHER I KNEW
III THE MOTHER I DID NOT KNOW
IV SUMMER’S END
PREVIEW: THE IRRATIONAL SEASON
A BIOGRAPHY OF MADELEINE L’ENGLE
I
Summer’s Beginning
1
This is the summer of the great-grandmother, more her summer than any other summer. This is the summer after her ninetieth birthday, the summer of the swift descent.
Once, when I was around twelve, we took a twenty-mile toboggan ride down a Swiss mountainside. The men guiding the toboggan were experienced mountaineers; the accelerating speed was wildly exciting. Mother and I both clutched the sides of the toboggan as we careened around sharply banked curves. The guides could keep it on the hard-packed snow of the path, but they could not stop it in its descent. My mother’s plunge into senility reminds me of that toboggan ride.
When I look at the long green and gold days of this summer, the beautiful days are probably more beautiful, and the horrible days more horrible, than in actuality. But there’s no denying that it’s a summer of extremes.
It might be said with some justification that all our summers are summers of extremes, because when the larger family gathers together we are a group of opinionated, noisily articulate, varied and variable beings. It is fortunate for us all that Crosswicks is a largish, two-hundred-and-some-year-old farmhouse; even so, when four generations’ worth of strong-willed people assemble under one roof, the joints of the house seem to creak in an effort to expand. If we all strive toward moderation, it is because we, like the ancient Greeks, are natively immoderate.
This is our fourth four-generation summer. Four Junes ago Mother’s namesake and first great-grandchild, Madeleine, was born. We call her Léna, to avoid confusion in this household of Madeleines. Charlotte, the second great-granddaughter, was born fourteen months later. My mother is very proud of being the Great-grandmother.
But she is hardly the gentle little old lady who sits by the fireside and knits. My knowledge of her is limited by my own chronology; I was not around for nearly forty years of her life, and her premotherhood existence was exotic and adventurous; in the days before planes she traveled by camel and donkey; she strode casually through a world which is gone and which I will never see except through her eyes. The woman I have experienced only as loving and gentle mother has, for the past several years, been revealing new and demanding facets. When she wants something she makes her desires known in no uncertain terms, and she’s not above using her cane as a weapon. She gathers puppies and kittens into her lap; she likes her bourbon before dinner; she’s a witty raconteur; and the extraordinary thing about her descent into senility is that there are occasional wild, brilliant flashes which reveal more of my mother-Madeleine than I ever knew when she was simply my mother.
But she is my mother; there is this indisputable, biological fact which blocks my attempts at objectivity. I love her, and the change in her changes me, too.
She was born in the Deep South, spent her married life wandering the globe, in New York and London, and now, in her old age, prefers the more clement weather of North Florida for the winters. But her presence in Crosswicks has always been part of the summers. A friend asked me, “Did you invite your mother to spend the summers with you or did she invite herself?”
I was a little taken aback. “There wasn’t ever any question of inviting. We just said, ‘When are you coming?’”
“Did you discuss it with Hugh?”
I don’t think it ever needed discussion. My mother and my husband have always loved each other—after the very first when Mother wasn’t happy about the idea of my marrying an actor. She and Hugh are much alike, in character, in temperament. A stranger would be apt to take Mother and Hugh for mother and son, and me for the in-law. We have always thought of her as part of Crosswicks. She helped make it grow from the dilapidated, unloved old building it was when we first saw it, a quarter of a century ago, to the home it is now. She helped plan my workroom out over the garage, a beautiful study which the children named the Tower. When we lived in Crosswicks year round, while our children were little, she usually spent one of the winter months with us; when we moved back to New York for the school year, this was even more fun for her, because we could go to the theatre, the opera.
I have been so used to having my mother be my friend as well as my mother, to having her be Hugh’s friend, that I was surprised at the idea of “inviting” her to spend the summer, and at the implication that this is not the usual way of things.
Perhaps it’s not, but having Mother spend the summer in Crosswicks is part of the chronology of the house.
Hugh and I drive to New York, to the airport, to meet her and bring her the hundred miles to Crosswicks. I am shocked when I see her. The plane flight has been harder on her than we had anticipated; the toboggan has continued its descent at an accelerating pace since we saw her at the ninetieth-birthday celebration on April 30. She is confused during the two and a half hours’ drive. I hold her hand and try to point out familiar landmarks.
“I don’t remember it,” she says anxiously. Only occasionally will she see a building, a turn of the road, a special view, and say, “I know this! I’ve been here before … Haven’t I?”
We stop at our usual halfway place, the Red Rooster, for lunch, but Mother is too nervous to eat, and we stay only a few minutes, while Hugh and I quickly swallow hamburgers. I continue to hold her hand, to pet her. My emotions are turned off; I do not feel, any more than one feels pain after a deep cut. The body provides its own anesthesia for the first minutes after a wound, and stitches can be put in without novocaine; my feelings are equally numbed. We complete the drive, and I am anxious only to get Mother home, and to bed, in the room which has been hers for a quarter of a century. My thoughts do not project beyond this to the rest of the summer.
I feel very tired, and somehow as though somebody had kicked me.
2
My Mother does not come to Crosswicks in isolated chronology; she comes to a house which, like a river, continuously flows with living. The summer of the great-grandmother began several weeks before her arrival, early in June, while she was still in the South, and her great-granddaughters were still living in England, where their parents, Alan and Josephine, were preparing to break up their home in Lincoln and return to New York. Our younger daughter, Maria, and Peter, with impatience and impetuousness similar to Hugh’s and mine a quarter of a century ago, couldn’t wait for them. So on the fifth of June Crosswicks was filled with the joy and laughter of a tiny wedding.
The apple blossoms were barely over, the lawn still white from petal-fall. There were a few lingering daffodils in cold and shady corners which keep small drifts of snow long after the rest of the grass has started to turn green. The lilac, purple and white, was in full bloom (the white lilac tree outside Mother’s window was a birthday present to her twenty-odd years ago); early daisies and ubiquitous dandelions brightened the big field. Hugh mowed the lawn, trimmed around rocks and trees. Our son, Bion, just graduated from high school, made countless trips to the dump, fifteen miles away—there’s nothing like a wedding to insure a proper housecleaning. And I cooked as though we expected to feed an army instead of a small weddi
ng party.
Maria and I had long, quiet talks. Like her sister Josephine before her, she was apprehensive as the moment approached. I assured her that I had been too. We grew closer in sharing experience.
Peter and I talked, too. He said, “Maria is worried that you don’t love me as much as you love Alan.” I assured him, “I love you just as much for being Peter as I love Alan for being Alan.”
Alan is English, an Anglican priest and theologian. Peter is Jewish, and a theoretical chemist, and that’s a superb pair of sons-in-law. A few days ago Peter showed me his most recent published paper and paid me the honor of expecting me to understand his strings of equations, Greek letters, and an occasional English word. He leaves pads of yellow paper lying around on which he has been scrawling a long equation he is trying to think through. Occasionally I will glimpse, off in the corner of my mind, something of what he is driving at, and this happens just often enough to encourage me.
On the day of the wedding, our friend and family godfather, Canon Tom Tallis, drove up to Cross-wicks from St. John’s Cathedral in New York to perform the wedding ceremony.
In the same large, L-shaped living room where Peter and Maria stood to become man and wife, Hugh and I, newly married, had put on wallpaper, yellow and grey colonial wallpaper which is still on the walls, still beautiful (we are very good wallpaperers). Hugh had spent hours pulling the old bark from the ceiling beams, scrubbing them down; these were the first important acts of making Crosswicks our home. Several years later I rocked Bion in an ancient wooden cradle in front of the fireplace in the long end of the L. The Christmas tree was always in the corner of the L, in front of the heavy door, the “funeral door” which blew in during the blizzard of ’88. One Christmas Eve, when our children were small, we all set off for church, leaving the wrapped presents under the tree, and a puppy in the kitchen. When we got home the puppy had got loose and had joyfully unwrapped every single package. Thank-you letters that year ran something like, “Thank you for the lovely present …” because nobody had any idea who had sent what.
I have wept in this room; made love in this room, in front of the fire on a cold winter’s night; I have waited anxiously for my husband to make a long drive home the length of New England during a terrible wind and snow storm. The house has absorbed and contained much of my married life, of my “grownup” years. The fullness of life in this room filled my heart as we waited for Tallis to begin.
The family wedding party stood in a semicircle—Hugh and me; Peter’s mother and two sisters; Bion; plus the cats and dogs, interested in the whole event and ever ready to participate. Tyrrell, Josephine and Alan’s dog, half shepherd, half golden retriever, who has been with us for the three years they have been in England, retired under the sofa. The two Irish setter puppies, Faba, who belongs to Tallis, and her sister, Dulcie, who is ours, are less well behaved and I had to order them, firmly, “Sit.” Then the words of the wedding ceremony took over and I found that I was close to tears in the presence of these aweful vows my daughter and Peter were taking, the same vows which Hugh and I took, the vows which have held us together through many rough patches.
When I hugged and kissed Maria after the final words were said, I whispered to her, “Now that there has been a wedding here, the house is truly blessed.”
That night when everybody had left, except for Hugh and Bion and me, and Hugh and I were ensconced wearily in our four-poster bed, reading, the phone rang. It was Maria and Peter, calling from the International Motel at JFK airport, bubbling with happiness, thanking us—and everybody—for their day; sharing their joy. Josephine and Alan had called from the same place on their wedding night; our travel agent had kept reassuring us that the rooms were soundproof, and it took us a long time to realize that he was referring to the sound of planes.
Laughing, we turned off the lights.
3
And so the summer began with something quite ordinary, two young people getting married. We put the house back into its usual disorder, and I began to concentrate on Mother’s arrival. When we went South for the ninetieth-birthday party, we all realized that if Mother was to spend the summer months in Crosswicks as usual, she would have to have a great deal more care than ever before. So we began putting together a bouquet of young girls to tend her, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. These girls, friends of our children, are of high school and college age, and this is their summer job. I talked with them informally, trying to tell them what we expected of them, and somehow sensing intuitively that the job was going to be more exacting than any of us anticipated.
The week before Mother’s arrival I was to spend teaching at a writers’ conference in the Midwest, and I set off, feeling that everything was under control, as much as is humanly possible. How to take care of my mother’s summer was my single-minded concern, and I thought I had the summer pretty well organized.
Then, as so often happens when I think that everything is under control, the unexpected struck. My second night at the conference, Hugh phoned and during the conversation told me, trying to make light of it, that he had been feeling some numbness in his feet. He had gone to our doctor, who had made an appointment for him with a neurologist; this could not be arranged for until a week after Mother’s arrival.
I hung up, hoping I had kept my voice steady. Only a short while ago a cousin had died of a brain tumor; the first symptom was numbness in the feet. I could not guess whether or not Hugh remembered this. I knew, from the timbre of his voice when we talked again the next night, that he was more concerned than he wanted me to know.
So we moved into the same kind of cold waiting we had known once before, when three-year-old Josephine, during Christmastime, showed all the symptoms of leukemia. The pediatrician, examining her, had talked in obscure medical terminology, and I finally cut him short by saying, “What you mean is that you suspect leukemia—don’t you?” “It is a possibility, yes.” Once the words were out, he was much more gentle, much more human with us than he had been while he was pussyfooting.
Hugh and I shared our fear mostly in silence. We will never forget the merry little girl’s lethargy and pallor, or her quiet stoicism in the hospital lab. Nor will we ever forget the world opening out again when the tests indicated an infection which was already beginning to clear up.
While I was at the writers’ conference our sharing had to be on that silent level which precludes words. This was certainly no time to voice my fears to Hugh, or his to me. The only way I could be a wife to him was to affirm silently a courage and endurance I was very uncertain I had.
One of the problems of being a storyteller is the cultivated ability to extrapolate; in every situation all the what if’s come to me. Often my fears are foolish: if Hugh is ten minutes late in getting home from the theatre he has not necessarily been pushed under a subway train or been stabbed. This time I knew the fear was not the child of my overvivid imagination; it was quite possible that I might have to face my husband’s death even before my mother’s. My powers of extrapolation were kind enough to slam the door on themselves, at least momentarily.
Still shaken, I went to give a lecture. I talked, as I had originally planned to do, about the precariousness of all life. And I told about walking in midtown New York and having a stone from a nearby half-built skyscraper crash to the sidewalk just behind me. Had I been a fraction of a second slower I would have been killed. And I said that the artist’s response to the irrationality of the world is to paint or sing or write, not to impose restrictive rules but to rejoice in pattern and meaning, for there is something in all artists which rejects coincidence and accident. And I went on to say that we must meet the precariousness of the universe without self-pity, and with dignity and courage. It was what I had prepared, several weeks before, to talk about, tying it all in with writing, and our responsibility not to make vain promises of “everything will be all right” to our children. But that day the words were swords which turned to me, to teach me. To challenge me to ac
cept my own words.
Listening to the lecture was one old and close friend who knew of my fears about Hugh, and I was sustained by the necessity not to let her down. What I cannot do for myself, I can sometimes do for somebody else.
That evening in my hotel room where nobody would overhear, I called Pat in Florida. Pat is a doctor, and we have been friends ever since we were in high school. I knew that she would not fob me off with easy answers, and she did not. She did, however, explain calmly and rationally all the things other than a brain tumor which could cause the symptoms. When I hung up I was still fearful, but I knew that there were alternatives.
In any case, one cannot sustain the heights of anguish for too long; this appears to be one of the built-in safety mechanisms of the psyche, and it is a saving grace. My fears for Hugh continued to give me an occasional kick in the pit of the stomach, but mostly they stayed decently in the background, and I was able to get on with the business of daily chores; complete the series of lectures and seminars; return to Crosswicks; prepare for Mother’s arrival.
At the moment it is all a chill business because I am living in the cold place of the absence of meaning. And yet I know that if there is anything radically wrong with Hugh I cannot survive it myself, or be a wife and strength and help to him, or be a daughter to my mother, or be a person for my family and friends, unless there is a promise of meaning.
My frail hope is that I was able to lecture while I was impaled on the point of anguish, and that I lectured well—no need for false humility here—and I certainly could not have done it if I truly felt that the universe has no meaning, that there is no point to Hugh’s life; or my mother’s; or mine.
4
I am tired, and numb. Mother’s first two nights in Crosswicks I do not get any sleep, despite my fatigue. She needs more attention during the night than we had expected. The two girls who do night duty are young and completely inexperienced in nursing; Vicki has another year in high school; she was born during the years we lived in Crosswicks year round; it is difficult for me to realize that she is now a young woman, and a very capable young woman. Janet, too, I have known all her life; her father died when she was a baby, and her mother only a summer ago, and I wonder if she does not feel a certain irony in taking care of an old woman who has lived long past normal life expectancy. And I feel that the two girls need help, not physical help, simply my being there, awake and available if they need me.
The Summer of the Great-Grandmother Page 1